


Maps

by jessgofffff



Category: Deadpool (Comics), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Gore, M/M, Morality, Sexual Content, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-05-25 20:23:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6208789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessgofffff/pseuds/jessgofffff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter Parker has heard a lot about Deadpool since the guy moved to New York, and to say he's not impressed would be an understatement: he hates him and (almost) everything he stands for. After an interesting encounter, though, Spiderman decides he'll take a chance on working with the mercenary in order to influence him to change his ways. If only he could instill some morality and virtue into the guy, maybe they could get along one day.<br/>But when Peter has to face the worst enemy he's ever dealt with, things change. He realises that Deadpool might really not be that bad of a guy, and that he'll need his help if he wants to save himself, his family, and his city.</p><p>Is killing a criminal in order to save others really so wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Inside-Out

The smell of a dumpster, that unmistakable combination of fetid and musty, flooded Spiderman’s senses. He knew what had just happened, but it took a minute to process: he was running on the rooftops, chasing a bad guy who’d just held an unsuspecting cashier at gunpoint for the money in the register. It probably wasn’t the first time he’d done something like this, judging by his clothes and the shiny, expensive-looking gun in his hand, but it was the first time Spiderman was there, and he wasn’t about to let the man get away with it.

So he was sprinting after the man who was on the sidewalk, leaping from building to building, getting close enough to swing down and engage the criminal from the air. He was closing in, and he held out his hand, slinging a web onto a windowless wall. Just as he lifted his weight off of the roof and began to descend, though, he heard a slice and felt his web fall slack.

And here he was, lying uncomfortably contorted, surrounded by wet plastic and long-spoiled food. He still didn’t know why his web broke, or why his reflexes failed him this time, but the most pressing issue that came to mind was how he was going to get this smell out of his suit. When he finally lowered himself out of the dumpster, brushing sticky noodles from his chest and shoulder, he heard a voice shout from above him.

“Spidey! Man, you really took a tumble, hah!”

He steeled himself, taking a deep breath.

“Deadpool, I swear to god. What are you doing here?”

“Well, you see, you were just about to catch that meanie running away from the mini mart there, and I couldn’t let that happen. So I had to take some measures to make sure I’d get to him before you did. At least I made sure there was a soft place for you to land…”

“A soft place coated in rotten garbage! What the hell?”

“It was that or the pavement.” Deadpool shrugged.

Spiderman glared up at him silently.

“Well,” Deadpool sighed, “he’s taken care of. So he won’t bother anyone anymore and you can feel good about that.”

A web slung onto Deadpool’s face and he was jerked from the corner of the roof, crashing into the concrete in front of Spiderman. He looked up, his vision blurry and his ears ringing, and smiled weakly.

“I, heh... I guess I deserved that one.”

Spiderman bent down, grabbing the collar moist with what must have been blood, and lifted the man up to look him directly in the eyes.

“What is your problem?”

“Well, my Squatty Potty didn’t come in the mail yesterday like it was supposed to, and I don’t know how I’m going to go another day shitting improperly, I mean it’s—”

“Shut up.” Spiderman gripped the collar tighter. “Why are you always around? Why do you always screw _everything_ up?”

“Everything? That’s a little extreme, don’t you think?”

“I’m tired of you always killing people I could have turned in safely.”

“Look, Spidey, you’re not the only one who has to make a living. And we just do it differently. Me, I take the easier route. Quicker just to get rid of them, you know?”

“But it’s wrong. The easier path isn’t always the answer.”

“You’re such a bleeding heart.” Deadpool’s voice lost its lightness, grew deeper. “They’re killers, sometimes killing them is the only way to make sure they won’t kill again. And that’s just the way it is. So you can keep trying it your way, but I want to make sure these bastards never get the chance to try anything else.”

“ _You’re_ the one bleeding right now. And I don’t care what you have to say, you’re just as bad as they are, really.”

Deadpool smirked under his mask. “What are you gonna do about it, huh? Can’t kill me, go ahead and try.”

“Why would I kill you?”

“What else can you do to get me out of your way permanently? There aren’t many options, buddy. I’ll always be around, doing what you can’t, what you never could. Making sure the bad guys disappear.” He looked up, moving his eyes closer to Spiderman’s. “If you would have killed that robber, you might still have your Uncle now, huh?”

“Don’t you _dare_ talk about him.” Spiderman raised his voice, his annoyance with Deadpool growing into rage.

“Gonna do something _now_?”

He threw the man onto the ground hard, hopefully fracturing his skull again, soaking the red suit with even more blood.

“That’s the sp—” a hard kick to the chest snapped a few of Deadpool’s ribs, and another pushed one of the jagged edges into his lung. He wheezed. “You’re stronger than I thought, Parker.”

Peter had nothing to say. His vision was tunneled with anger and the only thing he could think of doing right now was beating the ever-living shit out of the asshole who just way overstepped his boundaries.

He kicked again, and again. Each time he knew Deadpool was in worse shape, but somehow it wasn’t enough. He had to do more, to really let him know he should never come near him anymore. He webbed one of Deadpool’s swords and pulled it towards him, grabbing it and feeling it in his hand, the weight, the history. How many had Deadpool killed with this exact blade? In the past week, year, or since he’d had it? He really was disgusting.

“Whoa, Spidey… whatcha doin with that? Never thought... I’d see you hold a weapon with such... determination.” He sure talked a lot, but he wasn’t resisting any of Peter’s attacks.

Without saying anything, Spiderman drove the blade into Deadpool’s chest, pulling it down towards his navel. Deadpool let out a faint, ragged noise that faded into a quiet gurgle as blood pooled from his mouth, then he lay limp on the concrete. Spiderman had never seen him so weak, so defeated. And he hadn’t fought back at all. He stared down at the insides that were now visible, pushing through the split that he’d made in Deadpool’s abdomen, and instantly felt nauseous. Not from the blood, or smell, or the sight, but because now that he was done he realised how far he let his rage drive him. What he did to another person when he was really angry.

He dropped the sword next to Deadpool’s body, still except for the occasional shallow breath or twitch, and retreated into a nearby ally.

* * *

 

The computer across the room whirred low and warm, the low evening sun illuminating specks of dust that hung in the air. Peter lay in his bed, thinking about what happened earlier. His shower rinsed away the sweat and grime that accumulated inside his suit, but it couldn’t erase the vision of how he’d lost it. Completely lost it.

No matter how much he thought, though, no matter how many times he replayed the confrontation in his mind, he couldn’t bring himself to feel bad. No regret, no shame, no sorrow. Only subdued anger and a hint of… something else he couldn’t discern. All of this was so fucked up, he knew. But there was something about the way Deadpool lay there on the ground, bleeding, weak. The way the slick intestines shone in the sunlight, soft and wet with blood. He wondered what it would feel like to touch the tissue, how firm it would be and how warm. He thought of how his hand would feel coated in Deadpool’s blood after he’d been exploring his guts like a pathologist: here the liver, here the small intestine, here the rotten soul of a murderer, black and pocked with vice.

Anger welled through him again, in tandem with the other feeling he now recognised as his dick grew. He was turned on.

He’d never seen someone’s anatomy like that before, but what stuck with him more than that was Deadpool’s weakness. He was completely vulnerable, opened up like a product for display, meant to be looked at, meant to me _enticing._ And somehow it was.

He pulled down his sweatpants down below his hips, enough to expose his now-full erection. He spit into his palm and wiped it down the side of his dick, beginning to stroke slowly back and forth, teasing the head with his thumb on every upstroke.

Was it power he’d felt after he’d left Deadpool lying in a pool of his own blood on the pavement? No, he decided, Deadpool _let_ him do what he did, it didn’t take power. It was _dominance_. Deadpool gave himself up to Peter, let him do what he wanted without protesting. He felt free, and by the time he got home he felt a bit better. Slicing someone open is a pretty good stress-reliever.

The spit was drying quickly, so he reached for the lotion he kept in his desk drawer and pumped some onto his shaft, feeling relieved at the slickness, moaning softly as it started to feel amazing, relaxing into the dingy olive sheets that wrapped his mattress.

Maybe he wasn’t so different from Deadpool at all. Maybe everyone really wanted to kill and they just had to stop themselves. Hold themselves up to some artificial moral code. He saw killers every day, or at least heard the news. But the difference was that they killed for money, for power, out of revenge, out of passion. Deadpool killed for money, sure, but at least he only killed those who he thought deserved it for one reason or another. Not random innocents at the corner store. They both went after the bad guys, just from different angles. Peter knew his was better, that he still didn’t like that Deadpool killed people, but now he understood his rationale. He understood how he slept at night with all that blood on his hands.

And he knew that they both looked exactly the same on the inside, that they were just a mass of packed and raveled tissue, the skin so easily broken and the secret soft matter revealed in a gush of red and pink, glistening like a pearl and plush like oyster around it.

He bucked his hips, his abdomen tightening and his toes curling. He was close after just this short minute of thought, and after a firm downstroke he bit his lip and his cum shot a line onto his stomach, leaking down into his navel in a warm pool. He lay quiet, panting, waiting until he’d have the will to get up and clean himself off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading the first chapter of my first Spideypool fanfiction! I hope you've enjoyed it, and I hope you look forward to following the story as it unfolds. Feel free to leave comments with or without criticism; I'll do my best to answer any questions you might have about anything related to the story, its characters, and its universe in general.


	2. Backwards

“Promise you won’t have another temper tantrum when-” Deadpool paused, “ _ if _ we have to kill someone? We don’t need a repeat of last time.” He mimed stabbing himself and running the blade down his stomach.

Spiderman sighed. “I’ll do my best.”

Deadpool stared at him through his mask for a long second before he held up his gun, shoving it into its holster smoothly. “Time to get a move-on, then.”

The two walked towards the entrance around the corner from where they’d been standing in a dingy back alley. The sun was just retreating below the horizon when Deadpool pushed in both bars, the double doors swinging open wide. The deep, electric indigo emanating from the end of the long white tiled hallway contrasted starkly with the warm red-orange flooding in from outside. It was a nice combination, though, Spiderman thought. Even though the colors clashed, something about their shared radiance, their intensity, they worked somehow.

* * *

 

After Peter had cleaned up he sat at his computer, trying to read through the headlines but unable to focus, his thoughts twisted around mercenaries and their fucked up sense of purpose. Taking lives because it pays well, taking a sibling away, of a friend, or an uncle. Using the lazy excuse that they deserve it for their actions. His vision stained red.

What if it was true? He couldn't say that he hadn’t had thoughts of ending that bastard who killed Ben with his own hands, no matter what he was to someone else. He’d kill him knowing he had children. And that’s what scared him: how easily one could want to kill, and how simply a life could be taken.

Peter was suddenly nauseous. He pushed the keyboard aside and lay his forehead down onto the cool surface of the desk. He took a deep breath in, and huffed it out. The guy who’d been annoying him for months was starting to get under his skin.

And, to an extent, he let him. He decided a fresh perspective was what he needed after months of depression he’d tried unsuccessfully to stifle with work. Patrols that ended up in streaks of all-nighters, long stakeouts, always reading and listening for news, for alerts. It was starting to wear him down to the point where he was afraid he was losing it. And clearly, after today, he lost it for sure.

So he decided that he’d find Deadpool and talk to him, even though it felt wrong, super wrong. He’d hated him before, and he still did, but he needed to hear more from him. He needed to know whether or not he was wrong this whole time. About Deadpool, about being a hero, about himself.

He lay in bed and fell into a light sleep, kept shallow by the cool rain that tapped insistently on the window next to his bed, soaking black into the streets and running down into grates and storm drains.

* * *

 

As they made their way down the hallway, bass faded in over the low hum of the ventilation system that blew frigid air down from the ceiling. A steady rhythm got into Spiderman’s head, grounding him, reminding him of his focus.

“ _ Feel  _ that beat, Spidey.” Deadpool laughed, a short, hard chuckle.

Spiderman noticed his steps fell on each pulse: 1, 2, 3, 4 and again. He tried to ignore it and refocus, looking straight ahead as they came to a stop in front of the door at the end of the hall, slightly annoyed and marginally embarrassed. 

“Let’s do it.” Deadpool looked to his right and raised his eyebrows, holding the barrel of his gun up in front of his face. Spiderman looked over and nodded curtly.

The merc kicked open the door, pointing his gun in towards the drinkers and partiers.

“Listen the fuck up everybody, because I’m only gonna ask nice once. Where is Cashin?”

Not even a second of hush. Nobody even looked, except for a few quick glances that immediately looked back to their previous focus. Nobody approached them, and no bouncers came to question them or kick them out. A couple even pushed in behind them, brushing past Spiderman roughly to get inside.

Deadpool stood frozen for a second, before he lowered his guns to his sides.

“Nobody even noticed our costumes! Not even a curious glance, no hushed whisper about the two badasses who just busted into the club!”

Spiderman rolled his eyes. “Let’s just find this guy. I’m heading for the back.”

“I’ll just be at the bar. I need a feel-good drink after all that shade.”

But Spidey was already gone, sliding past the dance floor towards the dark corner of the space.

So Deadpool headed to the long bar, glossy black and wet-looking in the blue light.

“Canadian club, on the rocks.”

The bartender glanced up at him for a second, but didn’t mention the mask or anything else, turning back towards the bar to make the drink. They must be used to strange here.

When the guy set the short, heavy glass on the counter, Deadpool smiled at him. “See guys like me often?”

He shook his head no and shrugged.

“Really,” the merc swirled the ice cubes around, watched as the liquor left lines that crept up the side of the glass. “What about drug lords? Gamblers? Gun dealers?” The bartender looked increasingly uncomfortable, clearly weirded out. “Not even inside traders?”

“Nope, just business people in their thirties, coming out for a little fun.”

“Sure, obviously, this place is drier than week-old white bread.” He glanced over at the suit-and-tied newly balding man seated near him.

“Tell me about it.” He grinned.

Deadpool smiled. “Hey, you seem like a pretty cool guy. So tell me, you ever hear of a guy named Cashin?”

The bartender’s hand that was previously wiping small circles across the counter to mop up a wet spot with a towel slowed, and he looked up towards the balding guy. “No, I haven’t.”

“Ah, okay.” Deadpool sighed, then slipped his gun from its holster and tapped it on the bar. “I  _ really  _ was hoping you’d know where to point me. They always talk about how bartenders are so  _ in the know _ .”

The guy just shrugged and looked back towards the corner where Spidey had gone earlier before making eye contact with Deadpool. “Sorry, no idea.” 

Deadpool chugged the whiskey, only a small amount of it actually passing through his mask into his mouth, the rest spilling down his neck onto his chest.

“Sweet, thanks, gotta go man.” He stood and turned to leave. “Put it on my tab. And don’t forget your tip on the bar!”

As Deadpool walked to the corner to meet Spiderman, the bartender opened up a folded piece of paper, torn roughly from an ad for, he turned it to read the printed words…, a discount office supplies store? There was a number written over the text, almost unreadable, and a small red heart next to it.

* * *

 

“So, wait, you want to work  _ with me _ ? After you basically killed me last week? I mean, if I could be killed. Healing factor, y’know, kinda keeps that at bay. Anyways, like I was saying, you-”

Spiderman held up his palm towards Deadpool. “Don’t get the wrong idea.”

“And what idea might that be?” Deadpool winked under his mask, puckering his lips and leaning towards Spidey.

“ _ Not _ that.” He pushed Deadpool away hastily, pausing for too long, looking at the ground. “I just think we could learn a bit from each other. Especially you from me.”

“Like what, gymnastics? I don’t think I’ll ever be as flexible as you.” He tried to lift his leg behind his neck but failed miserably, falling forward onto the gravel that covered the rooftop.

“No, like not being a murderer.”

Deadpool was still face-down in the rocks, and he stayed there for a minute before sitting up and looking over at Spidey, his brow leaking crimson.

“I need a paycheck, man.” He licked his top lip where some blood had pooled, and pulled his tongue between his teeth slowly. “And we’ve been over this before.”

Spiderman looked away at the sight of the blood, memories pushing him hot. “Yeah, yeah, just give me a chance.”

“Lucky for you, I’d do almost anything for someone who’s ass looked that good in spandex.”

The high noon sun beat down on their shoulders, wavy lines of misty heat streaming over roofs in the distance. “Let’s go get something to drink, it’s too hot up here.”

* * *

 

Spiderman got up from where he’d been sitting, across from a shady-looking character just as Deadpool strolled over towards him.

“Get anything playing nice with Mr. Scarypants?” Deadpool gestured towards the guy still sitting down, even though he was definitely within earshot, and the man looked up with a grimace.

“Pipe down.” Spiderman rolled his eyes. “And no, not much. All I know is that he’s in this club right now, but I don’t know where.”

“Over there.” A dim red exit sign glowed over a door on the back wall of the room where Deadpool pointed. He started walking, and Spiderman followed him.

They pushed the door open into a brightly lit but sparse room, a table and a few folding chairs under a cluster of edison bulbs hanging from the ceiling. Facing away from the door was a suited figure, short black hair slicked back but not greasy.

“I was kind of expecting more guards, but-” 

“Cashin.” Spiderman cut the merc off.

A smooth, low voice like velvet- “I was told a guy in a mask was looking for me.” She turned around, her brown eyes warm in the incandescent light, to face the muzzle inches from her forehead. “I wasn’t expecting two.”

“Deadpool!” Spidey shouted.

Deadpool sighed. “You’re lucky I don’t blow your pretty, I mean gorgeous, head- you know, I already gave my number out once tonight, you think anyone will judge me for twice?” He looked down at Cashin, her eyes narrowed. Deadpool lowered his gun to his side. “Anyways, where was I?”

“We were talking about what we’re  _ not  _ gonna do to her today.” Spiderman stepped up to stand next to Deadpool. “The way I see it is this.” He paced back and forth at the front of the desk. “You could come with us willingly and your lawyer will win you a nice, cozy four-star prison cell.”

Cashin laughed, hearty and full, deeper than Spiderman expected. “What makes you think you can do  _ anything  _ to me. Do you know whose office you’re in?”

The sound of a bullet being chambered made Cashin glance back up at Deadpool, who was still standing in the same place in front of Cashin’s desk facing her.

“You’ve changed, Parker.” Spiderman flinched. “Don’t think I don’t know things. And I know you’ve never killed a criminal before. When I heard you were in my club looking for me, I was prepared to give you a stern talking to, a threat. But it looks like you’ve brought some ammunition.”

“Sometimes you have to evolve to stay alive. You know, survival of the fittest.”

She smirked darkly. “Survival. We’ll see about that.”

* * *

 

“Parker, huh?”

Deadpool sipped on a can of soda he’d grabbed from inside the police station after he and Spiderman dropped a web-wrapped Cashin off. The balmy night air blew past them, down the street of passing cars, people walking down the sidewalks to get dinner, head home, run their errands.

“Yeah.” Spiderman looked down at the concrete silently.

“Why’d you get so bristly when she said your name?” He took another sip, his mask pulled up just enough so his lips were free.

“I  _ do  _ try to keep my identity secret. Don’t you?”

“Eh, not really.”

A long moment of silence passed between them. Deadpool drank the last few drops of the sweet liquid and crushed the can between his hands, throwing it into a nearby trashcan.

“At least you have  _ some  _ respect for rules.”

Deapdool sighed, throwing his hands behind his neck as they walked together. “I have a lot of respect for a lot of rules, Peter, you just don’t know it yet. Or else won’t believe it.”

“You know my name too? Is there something I’m missing?”

“Being in the know is an important part of my job, Spidey, and there’s a lot you don’t know.” Deadpool smiled. “Maybe I can teach you more than you thought.”

Peter sighed. “Fine. But now that I know you know my name, I should know yours. It’s only fair.”

“Wade Wilson, at your service.” He held up his hand in a quick salute. Before he could say anything else, Spidey launched himself into the air, webbing between buildings and out of sight down a side street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, chapter 2 done already. I'm just getting into the dynamics of their relationship, but I'm excited to see where this story takes them. I hope you guys enjoy. As always, any criticism is welcome (and encouraged)!


	3. Upside-Down

The midmorning sun shone on the fire escape, the metal pinging sharply here and there as it expanded with the heat of the day. Yellow beams stretched lazily through the window still cracked from last night to let the fresh air into the still room. Muffled honks and construction sounds radiated into the small opening, the omnipresent ambience of the city. Another morning of the same.

The alarm from the phone lying on the desk had been ringing for nearly a minute, a soft but urgent drone of short, high beeps, before Peter opened his eyes, pushed his arm from under the sheet, and slid the alert away.

_ Reviendrai.  _ That word was the first thought he had, and it stuck with him as he shambled to the bathroom sink to drink a glass of water and take stock of his being in the mirror. He needed a haircut, maybe he could get it done today. He sighed. Unlikely.  _ Reviendrai _ . As he lathered his face in the shower he thought of the word, rolled it around silently in his throat as he rinsed the suds from his skin, down the drain in a quick spiral.

He hadn’t had French since high school, he noted, and hadn’t ever spoken it well or used it really at all. Return, first-person future. He looked it up while he slid a tee shirt on, but he still didn’t know what it meant. So he stuffed his suit into the backpack he slung over his shoulder carelessly before he shut the window behind him, all the way this time, and climbed down the fire escape.

* * *

 

He was in the back corner of a club, the music blaring, heavy bass pumping his eardrums. Dim blue light dyed the darkness cool, but the air around him was so hot he wanted to strip himself of every layer of clothing and more to feel the release of air against his flushed skin. His head hurt, and he didn’t know why. He lifted his hand to press his temple and saw in the weak light it was damp with dark red, almost black, sharp metallic smell and dull pain coating his muscles. He breathed heavy, and gasped, and realised there was someone there with him. In front of him. On their knees.

He clenched his jaw and inhaled, moaned again. He smelled the liquor on his own breath and smirked, settling in, feeling the wet warmth around him there. Inviting it. It wasn’t his plan, but he didn’t know until now how much he needed it, the touch of another, foreign atoms charging with his own electricity. If there was anyone there with them he’d let them watch. He didn’t care, he could only focus on the nerves high from sensation.

He looked down, at the seats next to them, and saw bodies. Still. There were others, sure, but none alive. The blood that coated his hands streaked across tabletops, stained the floor. Throats cut, bullet wounds, strangled necks. He knew it was him, at least in part, who made them. But he was fine, happy even. Anything for release.

He heaved and emptied into the mouth that swallowed him, grinning in the glow. A face he couldn’t make out looked up at him, licked its lips, then slid a red mask over its head and picked its gun up off of the table.

“Let’s get back to it.”

Then he woke up.

* * *

 

“How do you keep finding me?”

“I told you it’s part of my work to be in the know,  _ Peter _ . Shit like this is no sweat, 0 effort. For being one in a literal million in this city, you’re pretty easy to track.” Wade walked alongside him, sipping an iced coffee when he wasn’t talking.

Peter pulled him aside and spoke quickly in a hushed voice. “So you’ve known what I look like? My face? For how long?”

Wade laughed out loud, almost dropping his cup. “Oh, boy, sorry.” He wiped his eyes, opening them to see Peter staring back at him with a stone-faced glare. Wade cleared his throat.

“I’m not the only one who knows your face or where you are. You’ve got eyes on you, boy, and some of ‘em aren’t the kind you want watching you while you shower.”

“What the hell do you mean by that?” Peter’s memory flashed to just a few hours ago, when he was looping the word to himself and rinsing the shampoo from his hair. “You’ve been spying on me  _ in my apartment _ ?”

“ _ What? _ ” Wade rolled his eyes. “ _ No _ . I’m not  _ that  _ much of a loser. I do have work to do, you know. I don’t have hours of the day to spend watching kids like you jack off with body wash.”

Peter was relieved, but his face remained flat. 

“Oh, come on, don’t tell me you’ve never done that before. Yeah, right.” 

After a short pause, Peter contained himself and stood straight again, turning to continue down the sidewalk. When Wade caught back up with him, he decided he might as well ask the question that’s been bothering him so much.

“Do you speak French?”

Wade side-eyed him, his brow furrowed. “Only a bit, never really picked it up like English. Why? You gonna give up on Queens and go keep guard of the Louvre or something?”

“No, I just.” Peter sighed. “Nevermind.”

Wade stared at him for a second, then looked back ahead as they walked. “Whatever.” After a minute of silent walking, pushing through groups and avoiding collisions with individuals on the crowded walkway, Wade nudged Peter on the arm. “Where are you headed, anyways?”

“I do go to school, you know. Or at least I  _ try _ .”

“Oh, really? I had no idea.” Wade smirked.

“Stop it with the smugness.”

“No, really. I had no clue.”

“Sure. I’ll believe it.”

“No, seriously.”

* * *

 

The professor droned on about cations and anions. Peter stared out the window. Neutral turned to positive or negative. That dream he had, surely that was negative. But he didn’t wake up with his heart pounding, or with tightness in the pit of his stomach, or sweaty. It wasn’t a nightmare, and  _ that’s _ what concerned him. That was the reason he kept coming back to it, thinking about it ever since he woke up, thinking about that word that wouldn’t leave him alone.

Before he knew it, the other students were closing their hardbacks and shuffling up out of their seats in the big theater classroom, filing out of the doors to each side. He stood to follow, but he was stopped before he got to the exit.

“Mr. Parker, let’s have a chat before you leave.” The middle-aged professor called him from the bottom of the slope. 

Peter stepped down the large tiered levels lithely and stood at the bottom of the staircase.

“Are you alright? I mean, is everything at home okay?”

“Uh,” he hesitated, shuffling his foot silently underneath him. “I think so. Why?”

“It’s just that you haven’t turned in your research project yet. It was due last week, and I haven’t heard from you yet. Will you turn something in?” The professor’s slightly wrinkled eyes looked over at him through their thin rectangular frames.

“Oh, yeah, I totally forgot. I’ll have it, sorry it’s late.” He knew it was obvious he blew it off, but he felt obligated to at least make some sort of excuse.

“You know you can let me know if you need more time, if something’s going on.”

What was he supposed to say? Oh yeah, I’m a superhero in my spare time, and it was relatively manageable until recently when a psycho mercenary hit me up and now I have to sort all of that shit out. You know, no big.

“No,” he shook his head slightly from side to side. “I’m fine. I’ll have it.”

The professor stared at him hard, like he could read minds. That kind of authoritative look always made Peter fidgety, but he held out for a second before the older man dismissed him.

“No later than next week. Okay?”

Peter nodded and loped up the theater until he reached the door and burst into the hallway.

Wade was outside the front entrance, sitting on one of the concrete stairs that led to the big door of the lecture hall. Peter saw him but was shot with a streak of annoyance and anger. He wished he would stop bothering him, he wished he’d leave him alone. He was having a hard enough time keeping his life together on his own, and now this clown was coming around and messing everything up twice as bad. He walked past swiftly down the stairs in vain hope that Wade wouldn’t see him.

“Whoa there, Petey, where you off to so quick?”

No such luck. He clenched his jaw and didn’t turn around, waited for Wade to catch up to him.

“Just heading home after class. Do some classwork.” He cut his phrases short, keeping curt.

“Need some help? You know, I’m pretty smart myself. We could-”

“I don’t think so. I’m just gonna go.”

“Hey man, don’t be like that. Come onnn.” 

He stopped where he was, a few strides away, having already started to leave.

He sighed. “What.” Why was he letting this man stop him? Why did he care what he had to say? Didn’t he hate him?

“I just thought, you know, since we’re working together now and everything’s going good, we should have a home base.” Wade stepped over to Peter, still behind him but closer. “Figured I wouldn’t impose on you, and invite you over to my place for a few?”

“Ah, so you have  _ some  _ semblance of respect for privacy now?” Peter turned to face him.

“Always have.  _ A little _ .”

Against what he thought was his better judgment, he agreed.

* * *

 

Peter looked up, prompted by the eclipsed light of the tv. Wade was standing in a black a-shirt, holding two brown glass bottles in his left hand in front of him, his head tilted to one side in a stretch, the skin pulled tight over his collar bone and tendon. The slight flush of the warm blood circulating just underneath drew Peter in. He thought of touching, heat, pressing friction, the scent. His eyes focused as his mind wandered, and he didn’t know how long he was zoning, but he broke his stare when Wade shoved a dewy bottle towards his face.

“Are you gonna take it or not?”

Peter reached his hand out and grabbed the neck. “Oh, yeah, thanks.”

Wade let him take it and looked down at him, meeting his eyes but saying nothing. He had to know that Peter was staring at him, it was so obvious. He normally would have been embarrassed more than anything, but Peter was preoccupied with Wade’s reaction. That steady stare, knowing but skeptical. What was he thinking?

The beer was thin and light, just bitter enough to be refreshing without being hard to drink. He hadn’t eaten since the morning, so the effervescence went right up, and he was feeling it halfway through the first bottle as he halfway listened to Wade blab on about his apartment, telling stories of the weirder shit that has happened here.

“So there I was, scraping all this shaving cream off the backsplash, when-” Wade felt the couch beside him lighten like Peter was getting up, but before he could make out what was going on, he was cut off.

Peter pressed his lips against Wade’s, harsh and clumsily, his bottle set on the end table hastily just before. His heart was racing, his skin hot. He made his first move in a game he had no idea how to play, and he was unsure of where he’d end up, win or lose.


End file.
